


counterweight

by curiositykilled



Series: a small clock seen faintly [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ALL THE IMPLICATIONS, Aftermath, F/F, Families of Choice, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Torture, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:40:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3165107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy and Bucky and how they're still in each other's orbit even after a war and two deaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





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                Cryo is quiet. Not quite silent, but just a lulling hum and click of machinery that melds into the frosty blue-grey ice around the asset. It slides out of consciousness and lingers there, but occasionally, it finds its brain awake behind ice-sealed eyelids. There is darkness and peace, and the asset hangs suspended in unstirred tranquility. There are voices beyond the darkness, yelling sometimes and arguing frequently, but they are muffled and muted by the numbing blue.

                There’s something missing. There’s something it should be looking for.

                The blue seeps in, deeper, deeper. It sleeps.

 

\---

                “Yes, Mr. Jarvis, I am quite awa-” Peggy breaks off, freezing with lips parted.

                There’s a man sliding through the crowd below, clean-shaven and sleek. He walks like a cat, lean body moving only so much as necessary, and the smiles he hands out are polished and fake as glass. She shivers.

                “Ms. Carter?”

                “Excuse me, Jarvis. There’s something I must take care of,” she murmurs absently, settling the phone in its cradle.

                She’s out the door and down the stairs in seconds, hastening round the crowded mob of senators and millionaires with polite, quick ‘pardon me’s’ and quick flashes of smiles. It's easy enough to slide past the politicians, but following the ghost haunting the gala is a harder task. He disappeared somewhere amongst the tide of suited men, and now, struggling to keep her expression neutral and relaxed, Peggy tries to scan the crowd over mostly taller than her heads.

                It's impossible, she knows, Sergeant James Barnes died in action during a retrieval mission by the Howling Commandos in 1945. Two years isn’t enough for any potential bastard to have grown into his father’s looks. But - but she knows that face, those stubborn grey-blue eyes, that straight, hard jaw.             

                There's a gunshot, and panic erupts. People run like panicked cows about the chamber, alternately seeking their own security teams or the cover of tables. A shadow separates from the wall and slips towards the door. Instantly, Peggy bolts after. Her heels clatter against the hall floor, clicking against the marble like a pencil on a tabletop. The figure ahead of her is quick but unhurried, steps as sure as they were in the ballroom, stalking along the corridor but never running. Then, abruptly, it vanishes. She skids to a halt, staring around and searching out the shadows. A flicker catches in the corner of her eye. She jolts around to block a hand flying towards her. She throws her own hand up to block the broad palm grabbing for her throat. His leg whips out, knocking out her knees, and as he leans forward, the light hits his face.              

                "Dear god," she breathes. "James."

                He freezes, brow furrowing at her words. _This is how I die_ , she thinks numbly. _At the hands of a ghost_. She wonders briefly what they’ll say in her obituary before she dismisses the thought. They'll put something ridiculous and inane, that she suffered from a previously unknown disorder or was simply “weak of heart.”

                Then his left hand pulls back and cracks across her temple. Pain blossoms in white stars in her eyes and darkness swallows them whole.

               

\---

                Error. Error. Malfunction. Report to -

                _“And you, Sergeant Barnes? What do you have to offer?”_

                - recalibration necessary. Programming failed. Presence of virus? Possible. Search required. -

                _He grins, can’t find anything happy in the expression._

_“Good looks and charm,” he taunts._

_Her eyes narrow, bloodred lips thinning in a hard line, and he wants to laugh, can feel it bubbling up in his chest._ Try me, _he wants to say._ Give me a test I can’t beat. I’ve been fighting since the day I was born, doll. There’s nothing in this war’s gonna’ break me worse. _Ashes can’t be burned._

                It yanks open the car door at the rendezvous point, doesn’t bother to check if it's the extraction team or a regular cab. Stares straight forward at the back of the headrest, repeats meaningless numbers in its head. _3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8-8-2. 3-2-5-5-7-0..._ They’re hollow and nondescript,  but the repetition keeps it centered and calm. It needs to get to the base where they can fix it. It can't kill the people in the car; it needs them too much. So, it counts and it lets the numbers drown out the conversation around it as they enter the base.

                “-caused it?”

                “Don’t know...manual reset?”

                “-ask - no, I...”

_3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8-8-2. 3-2-5..._

 

\---

                She waits through Howard’s yammering, his nonchalant teasing and half-hidden looks of concern while Jarvis washes up the lacerations on her face. They’re bloody and messy and her skull’s throbbing like there’s a full drum corps pounding away in there, and it’s all enough to make her sure she imagined it. Ghosts don’t come back to haunt the living, not outside of fairytales. It’s impossible. And yet...

                “Do you recall the winter, 1944, when Sergeant Barnes was shot?” she asks abruptly.

                Howard freezes, face contorted in an elaborate frown.

                “You mean that time the Howlers turned into a bunch of pansies?” he scoffs. “‘course I do. Thought Rogers was gonna’ give himself a stress ulcer with the way he was worrying. What’s it matter?”

                His voice is careless and easy, but there’s a tautness in the back of his jaw she recognizes. It’s been two years and she still has to prevent herself from flinching when he tosses out their names like nothing.

                “Were any records kept of his recovery?” she barrels on instead.

                “Morita took care of it,” Howard answers, turning around. “Healed up before we got anywhere close to doctors. Just a graze, after all that worrying.”

                He’s facing her fully now, eyebrows drawn down and together over unwontedly serious brown eyes. His always-in-motion hands are tucked under his crossed arms, all that scattered attention focused exclusively on her. It makes her itch.

                “What’s this about, Pegs?” he demands.

                “It’s nothing,” she mutters, brushing Jarvis away from his fussing. “I just need some rest, I think.”

                “You almost certainly have a concussion, Miss Carter,” Jarvis pipes in. “You really must stay awake.”

                Biting back a retort, she sighs and rests the good side of her head in her right hand. It’s the concussion, she’s sure. _Dead men don’t walk._ It doesn’t matter if she’s seen them stand up and keep shooting after a bullet wound that should’ve killed them. Illusions, tricks of tired eyes. None of it’s true.

                “Just take it easy, Pegs,” Howard finally relents. “I’ll be down in the lab if you need anything.”

                She grants him a grateful smile and waits till both he and Jarvis have left to unbuckle her pumps and tuck her bare feet under her skirt. It can’t have been real. She knows that, knows it has to have been a play of light at the right angle on the right features. Somehow, that doesn’t make her feel much better. _I already have Steve haunting me, Barnes. I don’t need you, too._

 

\---

                “It was a spectre, an artefact in the coding,” the technician explains, voice placid and easy.

                The asset stares back, flat. Control left one minute and thirteen seconds ago, hand pressed to his lips, and there had only been a moment’s pause as all the technicians’ eyes followed him out. The asset thought it might have been worry in their gazes.

                “The body you’re using - the man it used to belong to knew someone who looked a lot like the woman you saw,” the technician continues. “It caused a glitch in your programming, which is why you experienced the error. It’s nothing a reset won’t fix.”

                It doesn’t know why they go through the trouble of explaining all this. They are its masters; it isn’t able to question any unexplained action they take any more than a hammer could question why a specific nail needs pounded. It must be done because they say it must. That is enough.

                The technician hesitates a few moments longer before standing and pushing back against the asset’s shoulders. It leans back into the hard seat of the chair obediently. As the restraints are buckled down around its wrists, though, it begins to shake, body trembling of its own accord. It can’t stop them, can’t prevent the tremors that race through its frame even though it doesn’t know why it’s shaking to begin with. It doesn’t remember this. Doesn’t know why its body  is shaking so badly. Doesn’t -

                The paddles come up and _oh._ Oh, it does remember. It screams.

 

\---

                Her hat’s tipped down low to hide the bruising when she gets back home, but she still ducks in when no one else is around. She can’t really stand to lose her flat right now, not with everything else going on, and women aren’t supposed to get in fistfights.

                “Hey, English,” Angie greets from the kitchen, glancing up with a grin from the book she has propped on the countertop.

                “Hello, Ang,” Peggy answers.

                She smiles, too, a smaller version of Angie’s broad grin. It doesn’t matter how tired she is or how much she hurts: there is something inherently comforting about walking in the door and seeing Angie’s easy grin and her cast-off coat across the wingback. It may be a small flat, one of few that doesn’t stretch their meager incomes too much, but her presence warms it and chases away the shadows that haunt Peggy when she’s alone.

                They struck a careful balance when they first came to Washington together: Angie spends her free nights with a respectable boyfriend, one who picks her up for every date so all the building can see it but never asks too many questions about her enigmatic roommate, and they occasionally go on double dates with one of Angie’s current boyfriend’s friends. They sidestep questions about marriage with innocent excuses about not having found the right partner just yet. No one ever thinks twice of it: they’re both good girls, and good girls don’t fuck girls.

                Draping her coat over the hallway hook and dropping her briefcase below it, she hangs her hat and walks into the kitchen to remove her shoes. Immediately, Angie gasps, and Peggy swears violently within her own mind.

                “Shit, Peggy!” Angie yelps, rushing around the end of the counter to cradle Peggy’s face gingerly in her hands. “What happened?”

                “It looks far worse than it is,” Peggy reassures with a wan smile, “but I’m afraid I may have to beg off the date on Friday.”

                Angie bites her bottom lip, forehead wrinkling and corners of her lip tightening.

                “Honey, what happened to you?” she demands, thumbs rubbing tender ellipses against Peggy’s cheeks.

                “I really would rather not talk about it,” Peggy admits apologetically, reluctantly.

                Angie’s expression pinches tighter, but she doesn’t press further. This is part of their balance, too: Peggy can’t tell her what she does when she goes on “business trips,” and Angie’s learned not to prod. Instead, she presses a gentle kiss to Peggy’s forehead and goes to step away. Peggy catches her, though, pulls her in for a real kiss. Angie relaxes into it, lips parting slightly in a soft sigh, but she doesn’t let it last.

                “You need ice,” she explains reluctantly, hand lingering in Peggy’s even as she moves to step away.

                “It will be fine, I promise,” Peggy answers, but she’s already moving off into the kitchen to get the ice and dishcloth.

                Following, Peggy leans her hips against the counter as Angie fusses with the dishcloth-wrapped ice.

                “You got a letter,” Angie says as she’s stepping carefully into Peggy’s space. “From - uh, Barnes, I think?”

                “Barnes?” Peggy demands, jolting away from the touch of the cloth-wrapped ice.

                “Yeah, like Captain America’s sidekick,” Angie agrees. “How come?”

                Peggy bolts away from the counter in a heartbeat, darting towards the letterbox by the front door, but Angie’s hand catches in her elbow and tugs her back.

                “Uh-uh,” she scolds. “You hold this to your face and I’ll get the letter.”

                Her voice is firm and authoritative, and much as Peggy hates to, she settles in against the counter with the hand-made icepack pressed gently to her sore face. Angie returns within a minute or two, plain white envelope in hand.

                “Yep, from ‘Miss Miriam Barnes.’ Know her?” she asks, trading Peggy the envelope for the icepack.

                “I knew her brother,” Peggy mutters, trying to read the graceful cursive with only one eye.

                The edge of the dishcloth keeps getting in the way, and finally, she relents and holds it out to Angie with a weak smile.

                “Would you?” she asks.

                Surprise slackens Angie’s jaw before her lips quirk up in a pleased smile. Peggy knows she can be secretive about her correspondence, but she’s surprised to feel warmth bubbling champagne-like in her chest. Accepting the icepack again, she watches Angie carefully slit the envelope and pull the cream-colored card out.

                “Oh, it’s a wedding,” Angie declares, puzzled. “Miss Miriam Rachel Barnes and Mr. Abner Benjamin Diener invite you to celebrate with us. The marriage ceremony will be held on October the twelfth at three o’clock. Kol Israel Synagogue 2504 Ave K, Brooklyn. Reception to follow at the Stork Club, 3 East 53rd St., Manhattan, NY. Please RSVP.”

                She pauses, eyeing Peggy with a small smile.

                “Well, isn’t that fancy,” she teases, before pausing to scan back down through the writing. “Huh. There’s a note. ‘Regardless of response, please join me for coffee at Sam’s Crescent Cafe at eleven o’clock, October 4th. Signed, NB’.”

                Her eyebrows raise, matching Peggy’s bewildered expression.

                “‘NB’?” she echoes blankly.

                “Well, I guess it’s not the bride,” Angie offers helpfully, setting aside the card to mop at the half-healed cuts on Peggy’s face.

                Stifling a smile, Peggy pushes the invitations from her mind and lets Angie finish with her washing before taking the washcloth from her hand and setting it on the countertop. Angie shoots her an annoyed side-eye, but her lips gave away her lie: they quirk upwards, stifled in their grin, just before she leans in to press them into Peggy’s.

                Ghosts and mysteries can wait till morning: she hasn’t seen their bed in far too long.

 

\---

                Control is pale, fingers trembling against the asset’s arm and fine beads of sweat gathering on the crown of his bald skull. He reminds it of something - someone - someone it should remember should - No. Artefact. Bypass trigger. Report to Control at appropriate time.

                "The wipes," Control asks, voice broken by wet coughs, "they are taking? "

                "Yes, sir," a technician answers promptly. "So far, electroconvulsive wipes have proven successful in selectively removing..."

                The asset does not need to understand this, but the word is unfamiliar. It wonders briefly what 'wipes' are before the thought slides peaceably from its mind. Today is a glass plate day: its thoughts slip-side out of its grasp and it can't find the urge to stop them. It is far better than the other days, when it is nothing but pain and fire and five letters that it doesn't understand but needs. Yes, the numbness is much, much better.

\---

                As co-founder of a brand new intelligence agency, Peggy doesn’t get off days. There are too few agents and too many problems for her to stay home whenever she feels like it - especially when Howard’s more likely to be holed up in his laboratories or chasing skirts than dealing with the ever-looming threat of Russia's own intelligence network. That said, in between whispers of top-secret training rooms and horrific experiments,  she can schedule her own lunch hours. Slipping out at ten forty-five is unusual for her, but no one thinks to question it.

                It’s two minutes till eleven when she reaches the cafe, and she can't help raising an eyebrow at the lewd sign dangling above the doors. She's heard of Sam's, alright, but never before has she had occasion to visit in person.  She can’t say it's a regret of hers.

                A quick sweep of the room reveals three senators, a House representative,  and a handful of businessmen she recognizes mostly through Howard. They’re grinning and talking around their tables in the lazy, smug manner of fat cats being fed cream from China saucers. Only one figure isn't. Slim and well-dressed,  a young brunette is sitting alone at a table with her aloof gaze focused on some distant point beyond the large windows. It's a familiar look of indifference,  one designed to keep people away. Peggy knows; she saw it often enough on the girl's brother.

                "Morning, Ms. Barnes, " she greets, sliding into the chair across the table.

                The girl shifts her gaze unhurriedly from the window to Peggy, and for a painful heartbeat, Peggy stops breathing. The ghost is back. This time,  though,  it’s not a figment of her imagination;  Barnes' little sister lets her lips pull up in an all-too-familiar not-smile and inclines her head politely. It’s a practiced look,  though,  one that starts to crackle away as soon as Peggy starts looking. There are laughter lines in the corners of her eyes that aren't just artefacts from a long-gone life; there is life in her dark eyes - this girl isn't her brother.

                "Naomi, if you don’t mind," she answers. "I didn’t think you'd show."

                "I'm afraid I'm not very good at walking away from a mystery," Peggy replies mildly.

                Something about that seems to amuse Naomi, and her lips twitch into an honest grin. The afterimage is gone: James Barnes never smiled like that. Peggy can feel herself relax, hackles lowering as they glance over their menus.

                "Why did you ask me to meet you?" Peggy asks after the waiter's taken their orders.

                "I wanted to make sure you knew you were welcome at Miri's wedding," Naomi answers honestly.

                "I received the invitation, " Peggy points out.

                "Yeah, that and about half a dozen others," Naomi scoffs. "You haven't showed at those, either."

                Lips tightening slightly,  Peggy pauses to study the dark-haired girl before her. She's transparently honest, and it’s jarring. Even with Howard, Peggy is never asked to be this forthright.

                "The war was an important part of my life," she concedes, "but I try to keep it separate from my life now."

                Naomi snorts, raising her eyebrows.

                "Yeah, _bull._ Strategic homeland yada yada? Fancy way of paying homage," she retorts before pausing and visibly forcing herself down. "Look, you don't have to come. I know you and Buck got along like Jones and spiders, but Steve loved you and that makes you family. If you want it. We just - we want you to know that we're here if you want us."

                Peggy freezes, blinking twice before swallowing and glancing down at the table.

                "They were that close, were they?" she asks quietly.

                "Wh- oh, Steve and Buck?" Naomi pauses and laughs. "Oh, yeah. My first memory's Ma chewing Bucky out for bringing home a scraped up Irish Catholic right before Shul. Think that was the only time he ever missed till - well. Till he moved out."

                Her voice dips a little at the end, eyes slipping down and to the right as the corners of her lips twitch downwards,  but she flicks her gaze up with an easy smile quickly enough. There’s a brief pause as the waiter returns with their sandwiches and Naomi drapes her napkin daintily over her thighs.

                "Didn't take long for Ma to take Steve in after that," she finishes. "He spent half our childhood hanging ‘round our kitchen."

                Peggy smiles faintly at that, though it's hard to picture either Steve or Barnes as children.

                "They seemed very unlikely friends, during the war," she admits.

                To her surprise, Naomi laughs brightly and nods.

                "The Jewish boy who could charm the soul outta' the devil and the scrawny storm cloud that followed him around?  Tell me about it," she agrees.

 _Not quite how I'd describe them,_ Peggy thinks quietly, remembering Barnes' brooding silences and Steve’s inherent radiance. She wonders briefly what changed, but, then, the answer's obvious.

                "Buck would've gone to Hell for that kid," Naomi mutters before she catches herself. "Christ, look at me going on about someone you didn't even like. Sorry."

                "I didn't dislike James," Peggy hedges. "We didn’t know each other well."

                Naomi’s lips twitch in what looks like amusement at a joke to which Peggy isn't privy.

                "Well, thanks for that," she allows, "but I didn’t actually want to meet just so I could wax poetic about Bucky. How are you doing?”

                “I am...well,” Peggy answers uncertainly.

                She’s suffered whiplash more times than she cares to count, but this conversation may top those experiences as the worst.

                “Yeah? How’s DC been treating you?” Naomi continues, evidently at perfect ease with the topic change. “Fewer assholes than New York?”

                This startles a bark of laughter from Peggy, and she dips her head slightly to cover the grin that’s pulling at her lips.

                “No, I’m afraid, there really are not. However...”

 

\---

                The asset has been out of cryo for too long. It can feel the chill creeping across its skin where the metal table presses in, can feel the constant buzzing pain where the metal arm drags too heavy on its spine, can feel the prickling twists of fear as the technicians orbit around Control. It can feel, and it is terrified.

                Artefacts are crawling up through its coding like grubs in spring loam, and it can't push them away. It hides them instead,  covers them with blank complacency. Control doesn’t like the artefacts,  it knows; he burns them out with pain and white fire.

_"What about you, Sarge? You've probably got a firecracker back home, don't ya'?" Dum-Dum prompts._

_His stomach twists, tightens, sinks. He covers with a lazy grin._

_"Lemme' guess: total bombshell with a rack to die for and gams a mile long," another pitches in._

_"Please," scoffs the kid on his left, "Sarge with just one gal? You're sellin' him short. Bet he's got a waiting list."_

_The men scoff and laugh, adding to the details of his Brooklyn harem with raucous glee. He lets them, lets them fill in his silence with their own ideas._

_"Really,  what’s she like?" Dum-Dum asks under the rest of the company's chatter. “I’ve seen you with those letters.”_

_He chokes a little, is immediately grateful that he wasn’t drinking anything to cough over. He should just admit that they’re from Steve, his friend, his roommate - but - but it’s wet and dreary and he hasn’t been warm since he got the letter in the post, and maybe just this once he can indulge himself, can treat himself to this little lie. He’s been lying for everyone else for long enough._

_“Fine, Nosy,” he laughs a little before leaning back, working over the words to describe Steve. “She’s - she’s a total spitfire. Looks like a strong wind would blow her over - hell, it sometimes does - but she’ll take on anyone. Scares the hell outta’ me.”_

_Dum-Dum grins, just the barest hint of white visible in the firelight. He can’t help smiling a little, too. It’s easy like this, when no one’s going to be checking out his story._

_“She’s real tiny, y’know?” he adds, absently. “But she’s got a heart the size a’ Russia. Makes me feel like a damn coward half the time.”_

_There’s a huff of air as Dum-Dum scoffs and cuffs him lightly. He doesn’t protest, even though it’s true. He’s a yellower coward than a goddamn garter snake._

_“You ever tell this gal you’re gone on her?” Dum-Dum asks._

_He thinks of sneaking in through the window to bring in homework, of promising to be there ‘till the end of the line, of staying up late to make sure Steve’s still breathing when the pneumonia’s real bad, of praying to a god he doesn’t believe in anymore to keep Steve safe when he’s not there._

_“Nah,” he laughs. “Coward, remember?”_

 

\---

 

                She’s running late the day of the wedding. A fact that she is perfectly willing to blame entirely on Howard Stark, in between dodging punches and throwing her own.

                “Hey, you’re the brawn, I’m the brains!” he yelps, cowering somewhere behind her.

                “You are a weapons manufacturer, Stark!” she snaps back, catching one of the thugs behind the knee. “You should know how to use what you make!”

                He yells back something about guns not being his forte, but the thug she’s been dancing around has finally grabbed her, shoving her hard into the wall. His meaty fingers tighten around her throat, her own scrabble across the wall. Finally,  she grips the lamp base and swings it up hard against the brute's head once, twice, thrice. He stumbles back, and she kicks him hard in the gut. As he topples to the ground,  she catches her breath in gulps and rubs gingerly at her neck. It feels bruised, like there will be great purple stripes there come tomorrow,  but for now, it is only tender.

                "I got the plans," Howard offers from across the room.

                "Marvelous," she responds, voice hoarse.

                He’s giving her what probably counts as a sympathetic look in his book when she glances up;  it's little more than an odd twist of his lips in reality. Forcing herself upright,  Peggy takes a sore breath.

                "Still need that ride?" he asks.

                "Yes," she answers. "Yes, if you don't mind."

                He doesn’t,  of course, and they’re in the car, barreling down the road soon enough.

                "So, Barnes' family's doing what? Adopting the whole SSR?" Howard asks when they’re halfway to the club.

                "I believe they simply wish to help," she replies mildly.

                She doesn't voice the rest of it, that it feels like penance,  like they have something for which they are trying to atone. Stark has tried the same, with his endless hours scouring the Arctic.  She knows better than to give him any new ideas; children are not supposed to be absolution.

 

\---

 

                Bucky’s trapped. He doesn’t know - can’t remember  how long they’ve had him, but he remembers them cutting into his arm, remembers icy wet soaking into his back, remembers - remembers Steve’s outstretched hand getting smaller, smaller, gone. He doesn’t mention it, doesn’t break the flat mouth and empty stare that feels newly natural on his face. They can’t know, he knows; they’ll burn it and strip it from him till he’s just a shell again.

                He has to escape, has to find Steve, get them both the hell out of there.

                So, for now, he stays silent and listens.

 

\---

 

                The room she’s shown to at the Stork Club is crowded and boisterous: it takes Peggy a solid five minutes to catch sight of anyone she knows, and even then it’s because Jones is the only man in the room with skin darker than a banana’s flesh. She slides through the throng, managing somehow to slip unnoticed past revelling men and gay women. She’s a shadow, for one of the first times in her life, and it tickles at the back of her neck like a warning.

                “Carter!” Dugan announces, throwing his arms wide in greeting, and she can’t repress a grin.

                They’re all there, except Dernier - even Falsworth, though he’s been cornered by a pretty little girl with ribbons tied tidily in her near-black hair. Dugan’s greeting is the most enthusiastic, of course, because she has yet to see him do anything by halves, but the others all respond with a certain amount of genuine cheer. None seem drunk, which surprises her a little, but for all but two of them, the war’s been over for two good years. It doesn’t mean the ghosts are gone, she’s sure, but she also imagines it helps to have a little distance. When Falsworth finally escapes his pint-sized interrogator, she recognizes the shadows under his eyes. His war, then, isn’t over either.

                “Fancy seeing you here,” he greets with a friendly incline of his head.

                “Yes, well, I can’t spend every day working,” she replies easily.

                “Good!” a new voice announces cheerily. “Weddings aren’t for business, anyway. Not in this family.”

                A glass of champagne is pressed into her hand, and she startles a little, turning partially to see the woman who’s stepped up to her side. _God’s sake, Barnes, cut your ha-_ Peggy thinks automatically before starting and just barely keeping herself from gaping. Where Naomi Barnes had shared subtle hints of expressions and features with her brother, this woman is cut from within an inch of the same cloth. Those same iced eyes, that same half-curled smirk - only the dimple in her chin is missing.

                “Becca Proctor,” she introduces herself, extending a hand. “You must be Agent Carter.”

                Peggy accepts it with a firm shake, startled by the prominent bones and strong grip. She shouldn’t be: she saw her brother’s own disassemble his rifle with the same deft grace and bare strength. Releasing her, Becca’s lips quirk up a little at the corners.

                “Peggy,” she replies.

                Becca smiles, and it’s beautiful, it’s terrifying, it’s a ghost.

 

\---

 

                He’s running.

                They’re going to catch him.

                They can’t. He has to get out. Has to find Steve. Has to get _out_.

                His feet pound against the concrete, echoing loud in the corridor. Doesn’t matter - hallway only goes one way. They know where he is.

                They’re going to catch him.

                The arm at his side is heavy, pulling on him like a sandbag. He forces it backward and releases it forward and tries to make it help. It doesn’t, not really. He keeps going, though, breath coming short and sharp.

                They’re going to catch him.

                He’s at street level now, bursting out of the front door, and he’ll be fine now. He just has to blend in, duck into the crowd. It’s nothing to steal a coat; they won’t notice another dark-haired man walking the streets.  He slides in amongst the throng, earning plenty of looks for walking through snow without a shirt on. He doesn’t feel it. The guards will be out any minute, once they’ve regained consciousness and stumbled onto fractured legs. He grabs a coat draped over a cafe’s chair, the coffee still steaming into the winter air. Tugs it on, fixes up the buttons as he ducks his head and stalks along the sidewalk. He snaps out the paper he snagged from the table at the same time, ducking into a slight, brick-walled alcove, and lifts it to reading height. He stops.

                 _Капитан Америка объявлен погибнувшим в бою_

They catch him.

 

\---

                “You’ve got to be kidding!” Becca laughs, head thrown back to expose a slender white throat. “Please tell me you made him regret _that_ at least.”

                “Oh, absolutely,” Peggy replies, smiling around her glass’ lip.

                The conversation lulls for a moment, Becca shaking her head slightly and fending off the grin that stays, stubborn, on her full lips, and Peggy basking in the warmth of her amusement. After mostly recomposing herself, Becca pauses with her gaze fully on Peggy, and her expression is staggering for the sheer amount of fondness in it.

                “You know,” Becca starts, voice easy and genuine, “you need to come around more often. I know, you’re busy being a working woman, but Saturday mornings are pancake mornings, and y’haven’t had breakfast till you’ve tried Mama’s pancakes.”

                There’s an excuse there, somewhere, about not liking pancakes or being too busy but it’s strangled in the face of Becca’s cool patience. There’s a sniper’s stillness in her wait, and a mother’s warmth in her blue eyes.

                “It’s been a long time since I had pancakes,” she admits cautiously, and Becca’s lips stretch in a quiet smile.

                “Nine AM,” she answers, “though we don’t judge much if you’re late.”

                The geniality with which she offers it carries none of the shadows of her hooded gaze or confident smirk; it is honest and open, and it seeps into Peggy’s skin like the sun. Standing there, with a mob of well-wishers around her and champagne bubbling in her glass, she wonders if this is what family feels like.

                “Sounds lovely,” she agrees, and Becca’s smile splits into a grin.

 

\---

                The asset studies the image held before it. The woman is young, dark hair pulled back from a strong jaw, and darkened lips. It has never seen her before.

                “Do you recognize her?” the technician asks.

                “No,” it answers.

                It is the right answer. They open cryo and put it away. The blue-grey frost creeps across the glass and seals its eyelids shut, and there are voices beyond the tube. They argue briefly, rising to a few shouts, but they are muted, muffled. There’s something missing - there’s something it should look for. The ice seeps in, deeper and deeper.

                The asset sleeps.

               

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The Russian bit should say "Captain America Declared Killed in Action" (obv. nominally because Stark clearly didn't stop looking, but I think they'd need to declare Steve dead publicly for political/publicity reasons [martyrier, sacrifice of war, yada yada]). Huge thanks to thebluejay for correcting that for me!
> 
> Also, I have a pretty strong feeling that this is going to end up being a series because I have a lot of feelings about Bucky and his family and Peggy and her "family" and...yeah. So. 
> 
> And, because all the cool kids are doing it, you can find me on tumblr at curiosity-killed18 if you want to cry about Bucky, drool over Peggy, and overall just rant about the MCU. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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